


touch me and give me that rush

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (yes), Multi, an unbearable amount of foreplay probably, is this a character study about sex maybe i don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, Sergeant, I would’ve said that you’re the perfect bedmate if it weren’t for that mouth of yours.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch me and give me that rush

**Author's Note:**

> you know, this started off as a fic about Bucky having fun sex and turned into a fic about how much Bucky likes to give head. I just. I just don't know.

It’s one of those days. 

Not a bad day. Not an entirely good one, either. A restless kind of day, the kind of day where it feels like there’s an itch scratching at the back of your spine that you just can’t quite sate. 

Bucky knows he’s got a good thing going here -- not a whole lotta other aimless twenty-year olds can say that they’ve got a solid, six days a week job working in a factory office, for all that it’s boring as shit and when he’s finished sorting the paperwork on last week’s exports, he’s got hours and hours to just sit there and wait it out and that’s time open for his brain to turn itself around, to sit and stew and want. His left leg jiggles up and down, bumping the loose drawer in the desk with every movement, meting out a steady rap, tap, tap sound that’d probably get him yelled at if there was anyone else around. 

It’s a Tuesday. Steve doesn’t work Tuesdays; not much point to it, Tuesday isn’t exactly a big day down at the theater and there’s only so much work Steve can do painting signs and sewing up costumes before the matron of the theater chases him out with a smile and sometimes a pie or two to try and fatten him up some. 

Steve’s not too good at days off. He always says it sounds alright in theory, the chance to tuck in and draw all day but the truth is, Steve hates being idle and Bucky figures if he plays his cards just right, maybe Steve’s had a restless sort of day too. 

The adrenaline gets him going all the way to Steve’s piece of shit tenement room, the cold December wind blowing right through him but barely leaving a mark and when Steve flings the door open wide, a tight, annoyed line wrinkling his forehead and sleeves rolled up messily and suspenders falling down around his waist like Steve meant to pull them up hours ago and never got around to it, Bucky guesses that he was about right. 

“What do you want, Buck?” 

“And a very good evening to you too, handsome,” Bucky says, pushing off of the door jamb and shrugging off his coat, pausing to hang it carefully on the jagged nail that Steve’s jammed into the wall in place of a coat rack. “How was your day?” 

Steve slumps into a chair at the kitchen table and it’s a fine picture that he makes, for all that he’d never know it, all sharp angles and ill-fitting lines and a scowl for the ages to top it all off. “You know that project I’ve been working on?” 

“The landscapes?” 

Steve growls, frustrated, dropping his head onto his hands, causing a dull thunk against the wood of the kitchen table. “I fuckin’ hate landscapes, Buck.” 

Bucky rounds the table, dropping to his knees, nosing his way into Steve’s space, forcing Steve to sit back, to open up as Bucky folds his arms across the width of Steve’s legs and props his head on top. “Got an idea that might cheer you up some.” 

Steve reaches out a hand, slim fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck and Bucky’s not ashamed of the way he leans into it, at the way a slow, easy sort of dopey grin crosses his face as he gets that much closer to what he’s been angling after. “Yeah? I don’t know, Buck, not sure I trust an idea that comes outta that brain of yours.” 

Bucky pinches Steve’s leg in retaliation. “Between the two of us, I’m not the one with the bad ideas and you know it, Rogers.” 

Steve huffs but doesn’t say anything ‘cause he may be a contrary little fucker but still, there are some things that not even he can argue with. “How long do we got?”

Bucky shrugs. “Ma wants me home early tonight to help her get things sorted. My father’s family are coming into town for their once a decade visit and she’s got it into her head that they’re gonna expect a whole Christmas feast.” 

“You don’t celebrate Christmas.” 

“Nah, but they do and my father kind of does and I think they’ve still got it in their fine, Christian heads that me and the girls, our immortal souls can still be saved from hellfire and Ma, she just wants to get through it as quick as possible with as little fuss as we can get by with.” 

“Becca’s gonna wind up pickin’ a fight with them,” Steve points out. 

“‘Course she is,” Bucky says, “and I blame you for that, teaching my spitfire baby sister how to punch, and then I’ll have to back her up, and it’ll be a whole fuckin’ mess of a week so how about you give me a little something to get me through it, huh?” 

“Alright, Barnes, you’re the man with the plan. What’s the plan?” 

Bucky purses his lips, making like he’s gotta think it through some but he knows that with the angle Steve’s getting, it’s quite the view and he takes a second to enjoy the way Steve shifts in his seat, already on edge. “I was thinkin’ how I’d like you to fuck me against this table so I feel it the whole walk home after.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Steve says, voice gone a little low, a little hoarse. 

“Yeah, Rogers, that’s all.” 

Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s hair, using it as leverage to draw Bucky up just as Steve folds himself over and leans down and the angle is all wrong, awkward and uncomfortable and forcing a crick in Bucky’s neck, but the kiss is slow and heavy and filled with honey-warm intent, and for the first time all day, something inside of Bucky quiets and settles. 

“I guess I can oblige you,” Steve says, drawn out like it’s a hardship, out of breath but obstinate to the end and Bucky laughs into the next kiss, biting Steve’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Fuck you, pal.” 

Steve opens his mouth, probably to say something smart about it but Bucky just rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Steve, daylight’s a wastin’, you really gonna make me wait any longer?” 

Steve pushes up from the table, holding out a hand to pull Bucky up from the worn, dirty floor so that they’re both standing, positions reversed and it is Bucky, now, who is the one looking down at Steve through lowered lashes but there’s some part of Bucky who can’t shake the notion that it’s meant to be the other way around, that it’s always meant to be him looking up at this beautiful, impossible boy held together by rage and compassion and sheer fuckin’ stubbornness. 

And Steve -- Steve still makes quite the picture, flushed and smug and hopelessly unkempt. Bucky reaches out a hand and plucks uselessly at Steve’s fallen suspenders, bravado knocked right out of him, wordless in the face of the enormity of this love that he’s never known how to pin down because it is something so much greater and more terrible than his bones could ever hope to contain. 

Steve shakes his head, like he gets it, like he knows that what they are to each other, maybe that’s something they’ll never be able to put into words exactly right and ducks in, hands warm around Bucky’s waist, deft fingers making quick work out of unbuckling and unbuttoning Bucky’s pants. 

“C’mon, Barnes -- daylight’s a wastin’, right?” 

.

 

The thing about touch is, you don’t realize how much you need it until you don’t got it anymore. 

Sure, there’s the casual intimacy of wartime brotherhood -- a slap on the shoulder here, an arm slung around the neck there, but it’s not the same thing, not really -- it’s not the slow, weighted intimacy of being touched just so, where every small movement is made with one intent and one intent only, and that’s to get the other person feeling good, to send sparks running up and down your partner’s spine. 

There are girls around, sure, and he can’t pretend that he hasn’t been tempted but Bucky can’t quite shake the messiness of it, can’t shake the unease at coming into a town where people’s lives have been torn completely asunder and reaping the rewards of it just for doing the decent thing, if the decent thing is pointing his rifle in the right direction and making sure the trigger gets pulled at all the right moments. 

And there are boys, too -- cornfed boys from middle of nowhere farms who look at Bucky and want like they’ve never been told before that maybe wanting and looking is okay and that’s a temptation too because it would be so easy to find an empty barn or a spare closet and it would be a sure sort of thing, to chase away that uncertainty and that loneliness as best as he can and replace it with cut-off moans and bitten-off curses. 

He knows that there are rumors about him; word of mouth stories told about Sergeant James Barnes from Brooklyn Heights because don’t you know about Brooklyn Heights, about what they do out there? He doesn’t much care; he’s too damn good at his job and until someone comes metaphorically knockin’ down his door spoiling for a fight, he’s not gonna make it his problem. 

But, well. 

He’s too damn good at his job; he’s a NCO and that means something, stands for something, a responsibility that he bears better than he might've thought before all this, and he doesn’t ever want to put any of his men in a position where they can’t look him in the eye. 

Bucky’s almost at a snapping point, the tension crawling at the edges of his skin and he can feel his patience wearing thin because it has been weeks on end with nothing to do and no idea where they’re supposed to go next. 

The thing about war is, they don’t ever tell you how much of it is spent sitting around, bored as shit and sweating bullets in your uniforms. 

But then the 107th spends a week in fuck-off nowhere Sicily liaising with Allied intelligence and that is a relief in and of itself because finally, here, they get a break, they get information and a direction and a plan to push themselves forward, but for Bucky, there is also the burly redheaded British codebreaker with a daring grin and a smart mouth that tastes like home and that too is its own relief. His name is Matthew and he has freckles on every inch of his body, a whole constellation spread before him that Bucky spends a whole day trying to piece together. 

He fails, of course, but he sure does have a hell of a good time trying. 

.

“You know, Sergeant, I would’ve said that you’re the perfect bedmate if it weren’t for that mouth of yours.” 

Peggy looks down at him in the dim light of the locked closet that he’d just dragged her into, lipstick and hair just so, and arms folded across her chest but a smile quirking at the edges of her lips that lets him know that she doesn’t mind, not at all. 

She’s a hell of a woman, this Agent Carter, and there was a time when Bucky never would’ve thought that he could find space in his crooked heart to love someone the way he loves Steve and hell, they’re not exactly there just yet, him and Peggy, but he thinks maybe they’re well on their way to it. 

This isn’t the honorable thing to do, here, not really. 

The honorable thing would be to walk away, to let Steve and Peggy have their storybook wartime romance, to let them cap it all off with a wedding and babies at the end of it and Bucky, Bucky has always wanted to be an honorable man, he has, but this war has made him selfish, has made him want to grab onto the precious few things that still make him feel alive and never, ever let go. 

“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Bucky says, running a fingertip up the line of Peggy’s stockings, tracing it all the way up to the top, delighting in the way she shivers with it as he carefully unhooks them, peeling the thin material down with painstaking care so it doesn’t tear. 

“I’ve never met a man before so willing to get down on his knees, Sergeant Barnes,” Peggy says, prim as anything even as she reaches down a hand to run it through his hair and tugs, hard. Bucky groans, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s something she’s figured out for herself or if she and Steve have gone and started gossiping behind his back, before deciding that he really doesn’t give a shit. 

Bucky tips his head back, grinning up at Peggy lazily, all slow, easy charm that he knows annoys and turns her on in equal parts. “A man likes what he likes, Agent Carter.” 

“Do you suppose Steve will be cross with us for carrying on without him while he’s stuck in meetings all day?” 

“I think Steve’s pleased as punch at the idea of you and I gettin’ along so well.” 

Peggy smiles down at him and it’s a rare moment of softness from her, the warmth in her eyes unmistakably fond. “Is that what this is?” 

“Well, I don’t make a habit of doin’ this with anyone I’m not fond of, Agent Carter,” Bucky says, hooking a finger in her panties and pulling them down, reveling in the way Peggy’s breath hitches at the motion. 

“And you know what? I think you like my mouth just fine.” 

.

He is forty stories up, high in the sky. 

The crunch of gravel and cold concrete seeps through the heavy, dark canvas and digs into his shins. 

This is irrelevant. 

The asset’s finger is loose on the trigger, practiced and measured. Through the scope, his target pours himself a finger of scotch and stands by the window, looking out. 

This is the mission. 

The asset blinks. His gaze wanders. 

One story below the target, there is an open window, there is a couple on a bed -- two women, one with dark hair and one with light hair and for a moment, he is thrown. 

For a moment, he thinks: I used to understand this. 

For a moment, he thinks: I used to want this. 

The asset blinks, shakes his head. There were two women on the bed but he has already forgotten them. They are irrelevant. 

His eyes slide back onto the target. 

He pulls the trigger. 

.

“What the hell is this?” 

Sam doesn’t look up from the kitchen stove-top, where he’s slowly stirring a pot of something unfamiliar. “I’m gonna assume that what you actually meant to say was, what is this delicious creation that you’re bringing into my life, Staff Sergeant Samuel Wilson, King of the Chefs, in which case, the answer is tortilla soup.”

“How do you make a tortilla into a soup?” 

Sam just stares straight ahead, giving Bucky a no-nonsense, flat glare. “Grab a spoon and try it, Barnes, and don’t make me smack you with my ladle.” 

“Didn’t think you were into that sort of thing, Wilson,” Bucky says, but he grabs for a spoon anyways and dips into the pot carefully, sampling a spoonful of the soup. 

Sam watches him steadily as Bucky brings the spoon up to his lips and that’s the funny thing about Sam, he makes as if everything he does is steady, and it reaches into a part of Bucky that will always be a little bit of a contrary asshole and makes him want to poke at it, makes him want to ruffle Sam’s feathers, and there’s a bad joke if there ever was one, but the intent is true enough. 

Sam is not a replacement for Peggy. He'd worried about that sometimes, at first, but no one ever could be and anyways, it’s not like the two of them have much of anything in common except for the fact that they both take no shit; that much will always be true. 

Well. Bucky guesses maybe he and Steve, they have something of a type. Nothing wrong with that. 

So maybe Bucky decides to make a show of it. Maybe he decides to takes his time, decides to lick the spoon that much more thoroughly, tongue flattened down to worn steel, and maybe it’s a little bit of a victory, the way Sam’s eyes flutter closed, the way Sam reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as he mutters, “you goddamn white boys are gonna be the death of me.” 

Bucky drops the spoon to the counter-top with a clatter. “Who’s worse, me or Steve?” 

“You’re equally terrible,” Sam says, “I don’t know why I put up with this shit.” 

“The great blowjobs,” Bucky says promptly, dragging Sam in by the belt loops and pulling them flush together. 

Sam shrugs. “Ehhh.” 

Steve would mock offense, here. Bucky just laughs, curling a hand into the soft cotton of Sam’s shirt and dipping his thumb below the waist of Sam’s jeans. “Oh, so I gotta prove it to you, huh?” 

Sam’s eyelids drop to half-mast as he drops his head forward, bumping their foreheads together. “Yeah, I guess so. That a problem?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer; he just slides to the floor, undoing Sam’s pants as he goes, pushing them down and aside and swallowing Sam down in one swift, smooth motion. 

Sam groans and knuckles the counter-top. “The absolute fucking death of me, I swear.” 

.

Steve knocks their knees together, pushing and shoving at Bucky just like they used to do when they were kids, huddled together on creaking fire escapes, sneaking cigarettes away from watchful eyes. 

The roof of their apartment building would be cold and grey beneath them but neither of them have much use for getting cold these days, so they’ve got one blanket underneath them and one blanket on top of them, passing a cracked, pink BIC lighter between the two of them and making their way through a half-empty carton of smokes and it’s a bad habit, sure, but it’s not like it’s gonna fucking kill them, anyways. 

“So, what’s got you in a mood today, Rogers?” 

Steve lets out a long, drawn out sigh, always the dramatic one. “Just -- the way people act around me sometimes. Like they think….like they think I’m something fragile and old fashioned that needs protecting. Just….sometimes, I think most people don’t realize that I’m a real person. That we were always real people. That the 21st century didn’t invent the wheel with enjoying life the best you can while you can.”

Bucky hums. “You mean, you didn’t just have sad missionary sex with the lights out and always make sure to pop ‘round to Church right after?”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Three Hail Marys for a handjob, ten for a blowjob.” 

Bucky whistles. “C’mon, Rogers, what kind of shitty handjobs have you been giving.” 

Steve nudges him in the side with an elbow, somehow still as bony as ever after all this time. “You’d know.” 

Bucky smirks around the edge of his cigarette. The more things change, the more they stay the same, isn’t that how that saying goes. “Damn right I would.”


End file.
